Those Who Overcome
by Eden Evergreen
Summary: (VQL # 10) Approximately 3040 years post-manga, and 40 years after a massacre that destroyed most of the independent plants. Nothing is the same: everything reminds of lost loved ones. The survivors must overcome their circumstances, and heal instead of growing bitter or falling into despair.
1. Anniversary

_Vash the Stampede belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me (*sigh*)._

_Approximately 3040 years after the manga ends..._

...

...

**Anniversary**

Naomi Ranita Saverem caught herself staring out the window for at least the 50th time today, with tears trickling down her face. She dabbed at her eyes. She'd spent the whole day trying to forget what day it was, but she had failed miserably.

Was it only weighing on her so heavily because her husband, Frank, was away tending emergency plant repairs in December? Nicholas and Alex lived there, so she knew he had a place to stay and that he wasn't facing the crisis alone. Since Alex was also a healer, she wasn't needed there.

She reached out with her mind and emotions, to sense other kin, and found the same sorrow within each heart. Not surprisingly, one was suffering far more than any of the others.

_I should go see Papa_, she thought. _If it's still hurting_ me _this much, even after 40 years_...

She picked up her wrap, as insurance against the cold of the coming night. She closed her door, but left it unlocked. Then she silently walked out into the evening under a sky red from the last rays of the setting suns.

As she walked, her mind wandered back.

It had been 40 years since that day. Nearly every living plant on No Man's land had cried out in anguish. The Saverem family members, whether biological, adopted or in-laws, had all felt a loving farewell from two persons they held very dear.

Orb-sisters had cried out for "red-brother" and "blue-sister." Her favorite hue had always been the color of his eyes; she wore variations on that shade oftener than not, and it had become the method that orb-sisters used to identify her.

After Vash and his wife had been severely injured and were believed dead, more attacks had followed. Only a very few independent plants had survived that massacre.

The humans had known nothing until they were told, but all the plants felt it immediately.

Ordinary humans, jealous of the prolonged lifespan that was such a mixed blessing to independent plants, had attacked the two most peace-loving souls in No Man's Land. As a result, on that day, those two were dying.

The vindictive cultists had not spared any other independent plant they could get their hands on, either. The only exception, where any mercy was shown by the misguided attackers, was for children two years old and less. They captured thirty sets of twins, slew one of each pair, and then proceeded with efforts to bend their young minds to their own twisted purposes.

Their father, who had believed he was dying (with good cause), had sent Naomi's twin sister Rem a more specific message. He'd asked her (as eldest, and a deputy marshal) to look after all the younger ones. His thoughts had faded even as he was sending the message. She'd immediately told Naomi, and they had literally flown toward the place that message came from.

What they found there still twisted up Naomi's insides every time she remembered it. There had been 62 attackers, who lay around the campsite sufficiently injured that they were unable to pursue her parents. Her parents had walked past two dunes, before stopping to bandage themselves. That was where her father's lung had collapsed, and they had gone into stasis without expecting that either of them would ever awaken.

She'd found the pair of them, clinging to each other, their bodies broken and bleeding even through their bandages. She had joined the stasis herself, hoping to save them.

It was only a short walk through the residential district of Seeds Village to arrive at her destination. In a few minutes, she reached the small house where her father lived alone, when he was in town. Of course, today, he would be in town. He always came back on this date.

She opened the door softly, knowing that family was always welcome. She also knew that he needed her this evening, and that he might be too deep in grief or memories to hear a knock.

"Papa?" Naomi called softly. If he was revisiting her mother's memories, she did not wish to intrude telepathically.

She looked toward the couch. Sure enough, there he sat. He was staring vacantly toward the floor in the center of the room. Tears steadily dripped off his face.

Naomi gently closed the door, and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, and then knelt by his knees. "Oh, Papa," she said softly. She began gently wiping his eyes with her handkerchief.

It was a few minutes before he blinked and seemed aware of her presence. His eyes still seemed dull and lifeless, compared to how they had been while her mother lived. It was as if the light had gone out of his eyes, and his life, when she was taken from him.

"Naomi?" he said, mildly surprised. He tried to smile, but it only reshaped his mouth. "What brings you here tonight?"

Naomi just looked at him, and gently wiped another tear off his face.

He abandoned the brief pretense of cheerfulness, and hung his head.

"I still miss her too, Papa," Naomi said softly.

He nodded without looking up.

Naomi laid a hand over his natural hand, so he could feel it. She did not move toward his right. She knew that, in his mind and heart, that place belonged to someone else. Sadly, that someone else was not available to sit there.

"Shall we visit her grave, together, before it grows dark?" she asked.

His head came up. "You haven't visited her today?" he said, sounding surprised even through his anguish.

"Yes," Naomi said. "Yet I'll visit there again, with you, if you'd like that."

His shoulders relaxed. "I would," he whispered. His chin quivered.

She quickly fetched his wrap, and put it around his shoulders. She knew he was likely to be absent-minded regarding his own care, especially when he was mourning her mother. She followed him out of his door, and closed it behind them without locking it. She knew that, tonight, the neighbors would watch over his house and her own.

Together, the two of them walked past the residential area and past the apple orchard. A few paces further, just before the memorial garden where Grandma Rem and her husband William Reeve rested, there was a large number of lilac bushes. In the center of the lilacs was a gravestone. There they paused with bowed heads.

Naomi held his prosthetic arm, and leaned her head on his left shoulder. She knew that linking her arm in his right arm, or hugging him from the right side, would only increase his ache for the one they both loved and missed so deeply.

After they stood there in silence long enough for all light to fade from the evening sky, Naomi hesitantly made an inquiry.

"Would you be willing to share some of her memories, or else some of your memories of her?" she asked.

"Yes, I'll share something about her," he said, so softly it was nearly a whisper. "That would be fitting, today. Let's return, and I'll compose my thoughts for you."

"Thank you, Papa," Naomi said gently.

They began walking back toward the house he'd reclaimed.

Again her mind flew back to revisit the past.

The surviving family, and Chronica, had attacked the cult's headquarters. They went to rescue thirty-three captive independent plants, most of whom were children. They lost count of the number of cultists they injured in the process, but they were successful. When they had safely escaped, they'd used their ear-loop radios to send for sheriff deputies and medics to round up the surviving cultists.

Chronica had shot and killed the leader, Kamila. Vash had been briefly unconscious at the time, from a combination of minor physical injuries and mental strain caused by Kamila attacking him. They had hurried him out of the place while he was still partly in shock and before he got a good look at the corpse. He later learned that she had been killed, but he never said anything about that.

A few other branches of the cult had been discovered and cleaned up. Everyone hoped that was the end of it. The injured were physically healed, and then kept in monitored housing while given help to recover from the brainwashing. A few went completely insane and remained under medical care, but most of them had recovered.

The family returned to Seeds Village. There they raised most of the thirty rescued plant children, the youngest survivors of the massacre, in Vash and Shyla's large house. A few had stayed with herself and Frank, and a few others had stayed with Rem and Jared. The five of them had helped those children to grow up as strong, happy and healthy as was possible.

After the rescued children were grown and scattered, Vash had chosen to give the large house to a family that needed the space. He had then gently asked about purchasing the small house where Shyla had lived when she first came to Seeds village. Seeing the depth of his grief, and his generous offer to buy or build them a different house, the owners had been willing to let him have it.

Her father told her that he had almost as many happy memories from the smaller house as the larger one. He still wanted to live somewhere that Shyla had lived. However, since there could be no more children, the larger house was no longer needed.

Everyone still mourned the loss of those who had been killed. However, everyone also seemed to be healing... except, perhaps, her father. For him, Shyla's loss remained an open wound.

One of the few good things that resulted from the massacre of independent plants was Sheriff Central requiring that, aside from very small samples for testing purposes, all plant corpses should be released for burial. Along with others, such as Frank's twin, her uncle Knives' corpse was finally reassembled and yielded to their care. Her father had buried his corpse and all of the other plant remains, with a little help from the local undertaker and other family members.

Since then, she and Frank had been busily filling out paperwork to adopt any "orphan" plant children that needed a home. They requested all orphan plant children, whether they were boys or girls. Her father had expressed a worry that someone would again cause baby boy plants to "disappear," if a home was not ready for them. They were waiting to have their own children until there were adopted ones for them to grow up with.

Vash was also signing all of the paperwork, and promising his own assistance in the raising of all plant children that she and Frank adopted. Naomi hoped that would be enough. She also hoped that the papers would finish processing before any plant children appeared that needed adoption.

She and her husband Frank currently lived in the house where Grandma Rem had lived with her husband and children, only two houses away and on a lower tier from her father's. That arrangement placed them close enough to still feel like family, but allowed everyone his or her own space. Rem and Jared also lived nearby.

There were enough spare rooms among those three houses for their surviving siblings to visit, when they were in town. It might get a little crowded if everyone came, but they always managed to find a way to fit everyone in.

Her meandering thoughts were recalled to the present when her father spoke.

"Actually," Vash said, "instead of going back to my house, why don't we go where she died? I always spend part of the anniversary evening there, anyway. I don't know why, but I always feel closer to her there than at her grave."

Naomi glanced sideways at her father, and then nodded. "Of course, Papa," she said. "If that's what you want, then that's what we'll do."

"Thank you," he said softly. "I usually go there a little earlier in the evening, but I got lost in memories and then you came."

They turned their steps toward the Seeds ship.

"I never asked, but I have often wondered," he said as they walked, "when you couldn't wake her from stasis, did you let her stay beside me? She would have wanted to spend her last breath in my arms. I hope she had that."

"Oh Papa," was all Naomi could say, before suppressed sobs closed her throat. How could he possibly know that they'd been unable to wake her mother? Surely, none of her siblings would have told him. Chronica wasn't likely to break her promise, either; or, at least, she wouldn't break it without telling someone that she had done so.

Her father gently squeezed her hand. "You probably tried to wake Shyla by putting her in contact with someone healthier than I was at the time," he said, "to try to save her life. I can't blame you for that. You couldn't have known it wouldn't work. If only I'd been able to recover in time..." his voice broke, and they continued walking in silence.

Naomi was too choked up with grief to speak. (Don't blame yourself,) she pleaded in thought. (Kamila's brainwashed servants hurt you, and her, at Kamila's orders. She's the one to blame: not you.)

(I should have stopped Shyla from going into that stasis,) he replied. (I knew it would kill her, if I didn't recover quickly enough. She wouldn't allow anyone else to wake her.)

Naomi felt as if her heart had fallen into her shoes, and at the same time, she felt dizzy from confusion. Stasis was stasis, right? She only knew of one kind. If there was another kind, her mother had never taught her. She wanted to ask what he meant about her mother "not allowing anyone else to wake her."

She couldn't find the courage or the words to ask the question, though. She wasn't sure she could face it if she learned, conclusively, that it was her fault. Could she live with herself if she was the one who, quite unintentionally, had completed Kamila's efforts to kill her mother?

And if he always spent the evening hours of the anniversary day in that room, then that might explain...

If it _was_ the reason, that would mean she'd been wrong about that, too. It would mean that she, alone, was responsible for so much pain... How could she live with herself if she had been _that_ badly wrong?

...

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...

**Author's Note:**_Hopefully, this story should be able to stand alone. However, it is also a sequel to __"Crooked Leaves" __Prior to that tale comes (in chronological order):__ "Vash's Quiet Life"__ (1__st__),__ "Vash's Long Road to Home" __(2__nd__),__ "Rem Returns" __(3__rd__),__ "Vash Vindicated" __(4__th__) __"Shared Memories" __(4.5),__ "Disquieting Days" __(5th),__ "Loss" __(6__th__), __"Humans and Plants"__ (7__th__) and __"Journeys and Quiet Times" __(8__th__). I hope you will enjoy all of them that you choose to read._

_There's also an associated "free verse" poem titled__ "Too Late," __and a semi-associated collection of shorter stories,__ "Search for a Stampede,"__ and a closely associated tale about Nicholas and Chronica: __"Rough Paths."_

_ (Just in case anyone happens to be interested in reading any more of what I imagine might follow the manga's end.) _;-)

_There are also two companion tales to this series written by the highly talented _"JasperK": "Stasis" _and_ "With This Ring." _Please give them a read, if you haven't already read them. Thanks!_ :)


	2. Waiting

_Vash the Stampede belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me._

_Approximately 3040 years after the manga ends..._

...

...

**Waiting**

Naomi walked with her father into the largest room in the Seeds ship's second infirmary. She pulled chairs from a side room in, and set them against the wall that concealed her mother's cryo tube.

"Here, Papa," she said softly, gesturing toward the chair nearest to the head of the hidden unit.

He wiped at his eyes, but his tears kept flowing. (Thank you,) he thought, and sat. He buried his face in his hands, and sobbed.

She still felt a huge lump in her throat as she put her chair beside him, to his left, and sat in it. She put an arm around him and drew his head toward her shoulder. He accepted her embrace, and leaned on her as her movements invited.

As she held him and cried with him, her mind was ricocheting among many different thoughts. How long did he usually stay? Was it only a coincidence that there was a faint flicker from her mother, following the day of the anniversary of the attacks?

Could he somehow have the power to do what she and her healer-kin had failed to do for the last four decades?

This year, for various reasons, her siblings and the rescued descendants of slaughtered siblings had nearly all been delayed. Usually, everyone would arrive on or before the anniversary of the massacre, so that they could also comfort her father. This year, most would arrive during the course of the night. She'd left her house unlocked, and her father's. When they arrived, they could go right in and make themselves comfortable.

The healers would not willingly miss the morning, when there was a very slight possibility of interacting with her mother. They always hoped that they could stir that flickering ember to brighter flame, and risk an attempt to wake her. So far, they had always failed.

They had spent the 40 years since she'd been put into Cryo learning all that they could about cryo sleep and waking those who were thus preserved. If a day came when they believed they might safely wake her, they all knew what to do. There would be no need to call in anyone else.

Naomi meant to keep her father there, if she could. She had to know if it was his presence that caused her mother's tiny flicker of near-awareness every year.

It seemed likely to be easier than she'd hoped to keep him there. He was still sobbing on her shoulder, and his emotional echoes suggested that he might be falling asleep.

It would be a long night.

One sleepless night was a price she was more than willing to pay, even if it only comforted her father. If there was any possibility, however remote, that it might also help to restore her mother... then it might be an easier price than she deserved.

...

Naomi continued to hold him, even after he fell asleep. She instinctively rocked him very slightly, as she would a child. Her own tears continued to flow. She felt as if her own heart were torn into many small pieces. _Was_ it her fault that he was suffering so much?

She was the one who'd compelled everyone to keep silent, to conceal from him that her mother wasn't dead but only in cryo. Shyla's hair had been turning black so swiftly... she still feared that there wouldn't be time to complete the waking process before she died. The only hope was if they could break her out of stasis first.

She had visited her a great deal at first, and had sought surplus energy from orb-sisters, so that she might heal her mother's injuries. She didn't want those remaining an obstacle to Shyla's safe awakening. So at least her mother's body was intact. She would be weak, when or if ever she wakened, but she was whole.

She leaned her cheek against her father's head, where he rested it on her shoulder. He must have washed his hair recently, since the scents of sandalwood and spices were faintly present. However, she could also smell the desert winds. From her earliest childhood, she recalled that desert wind scent on him. Somehow, it was comforting to her that his scent hadn't changed.

He tensed, and mumbled in his sleep. "Shyla," he said softly. The way he said her name, even in his sleep, was so very tender. His emotional echoes plainly indicated a dream about his wife.

Suddenly Naomi felt heat in her cheeks. It was likely that nobody had held her father while he slept since he'd been parted from her mother. She hoped he wouldn't try to do anything in his sleep that would be too intimate, from mistakenly thinking he was with his wife.

To Naomi's infinite relief, all he did was caress her arm before he went fully limp again.

She glanced at the chronometer on the wall. They'd been in the room for five and a half hours. It was currently two hours past midnight. She hoped that was longer than usual for him to be there. However, she meant to stay until after the other healers arrived. She hoped to keep him in the room that long or longer also, if possible.

She had to know if his presence made a difference in her mother's condition, or not. She couldn't think of any other way to learn the answer to that question.

...

The first to arrive was Tessla. She was mildly startled when she saw Naomi there, cradling their father in her arms.

Naomi raised one finger and placed it over her own mouth.

Tessla nodded. (Why did you bring him here?) she wondered.

(I didn't,) Naomi thought. (He brought me. He said he always comes here, the evening of the anniversary. Last night, he said, we came later than he usually does. That made me wonder if...) She glanced toward the concealed cryo unit to her left.

Tessla looked thoughtful for a moment. Then her eyes widened. (You think his visits might be causing...?)

(I don't know,) she replied. (I need to try to find out. The best way I could think of to learn was to try keeping him here. He cried himself to sleep, and we've been here since.)

Tessla looked sad. (Aww, poor Papa,) she thought tenderly. (Shall I tell the others not to come?)

(No,) Naomi thought. (Let's all come and love her, like usual. We'll just keep the panel closed. I still don't want to give him false hope.)

Tessla nodded. (I'll warn them, at least, that he is here. And why. Maybe most of us could sit in the dormitory, since it's near her feet, to avoid waking him?)

(Good idea, and thank you,) Naomi thought. (I want to stay attuned to Mama. If he is the catalyst, it may happen later than usual.)

Tessla nodded. She quietly left them to wait in the dormitory.

Naomi's thoughts began wandering as she waited quietly.

Of the thirty rescued children, eight had chosen to study healing. They had been admitted to the secret about Shyla sleeping in cryo, after they reached adequate proficiency that they might be able to assist if she did begin to come out of stasis. They were all technically "of age" now, though some of them still appeared like humans in their middle to late teens.

One of the three adult brothers who had been rescued was also a healer, and had likewise been informed. Naomi had also told Frank, when he married her. She hadn't wanted him to wonder why she went to the room where her mother had last been seen alive so often.

Everyone else, family or not, remained ignorant as far as Naomi knew. Family was kept ignorant, at her request, to protect them from the pain of cherishing a hope that might prove false. Others remained ignorant to prevent word spreading. There were still small groups of crooked leaf cultists discovered occasionally, and she didn't want anyone sabotaging Shyla's cryo sleep cylinder.

Alex might be unable to come this year, if he and Frank were unable to solve a problem with an orb-sister in time. If the mechanical malfunction was not corrected almost immediately, the trapped sister's life would be endangered. Naomi understood all of these things, but she still wished her brothers and husband could be here.

One by one, every plant healer except Alex came in, greeted Naomi, and then moved into the dormitory. Her apprentices, Martha and Ruth, arrived first. Alex's apprentices, Lydia and Deborah, arrived shortly thereafter. Tessla's apprentices, Matthew and Jonah, arrived next. Her brother William came next, followed by his apprentices, Sharon and Angelina.

Naomi recalled teasing her father for the way he had asked her to assign who was apprenticed to whom for apprenticeship among the ones who chose to pursue healing. She didn't believe for one second that it was a coincidence that her unmarried siblings received apprentices of the opposite gender.

The corners of her mouth crept upward as she recalled the excessively innocent expression his face wore as he replied. "I'm only providing opportunities," he'd said. "I'm not compelling anything to happen."

Thankfully, her dear father was an honest soul. It hadn't taken much prodding to pry an admission out of him. "I know what it's like to be lonely, just as you do," he'd said gently. "If I can provide an opportunity that might help them avoid suffering that pain, I will. Besides, if I don't do something, Sheriff Central is likely to try their hand at providing 'opportunities' for my children. I hope that, since I already know and love them all, I might do a better job than they would."

She couldn't deny that he'd taken time and care in choosing apprentice assignments. He knew each individual, and had arranged "opportunities" for those the most compatible or most distantly related to spend time together. In each case, one apprentice was very similar in personality to the mentor, and the other apprentice had a very different personality.

The greatest risk was that both apprentices might grow too attached to their mentor. However, since the personalities of the two apprentices were so dissimilar, that was somewhat unlikely. Also, each individual grew emotionally at a different rate. It was unlikely that both apprentices would "awaken" with romantic love for their mentor at the same time.

He'd also carefully assigned co-apprenticeships for those inclined toward law enforcement, teaching, music, and clergy. Every one had an "opportunity" available as they finished growing up, even if it was a case of a male and female being apprenticed together under the same mentor or to the same location.

He was on the lookout for unrelated independent plants, also. He'd gone out and met them, and become their friend, and incorporated them into the "opportunities" he arranged.

She gently stroked his hair as he continued sleeping. Her thoughts turned toward him.

Her father had so many different moods; there were times when it almost felt as if she didn't know him at all. He could be very childlike. Other times, he'd display a wisdom that proved he really had lived for many centuries. He always kept current with events and slang, and often thought about how popular words would shape people's thinking. Yet he also had a deep respect for traditions that he found "worth keeping."

All through her youth, he'd seemed very energetic. Almost as if he had more life inside of him than he could contain, so he tried to share it with everyone else. She had come to think of that as an intrinsic part of him. Until he opened his eyes again, after coming to believe that her mother was dead.

Since then, she saw him struggling almost every day. He went through the motions of living. He ate, he slept, and he would tell jokes or talk or sing. However, his eyes remained bleak. They no longer sparkled, or shone, as they had always used to do.

She felt like a murderer. Watching him struggle, it seemed as if she was killing him by iches. Except for Frank, there was no one in the whole world that she loved as much as she loved her Papa. Yet he was only existing, not living.

She strained for the first hint of that faint flicker from her mother. Maybe, this year...?

She dared to hope as she waited in silence.


	3. Dreaming

_Vash the Stampede belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me._

_Approximately 3040 years after the manga ends..._

...

...

**Dreaming**

It was only a dream. Vash knew that, but he clung to it nonetheless.

These dreams came sometimes, since he had first awakened alone. They came since she had given him all of her memories, and then gave her life. These dreams were blended memories of times they had shared. Sometimes he saw them through his own eyes. Other times he saw them through hers.

This one was mostly through his eyes. However, it was enhanced by what he now remembered of her perspective.

It was the evening he'd proposed to her. Over the prior week, she had begun reducing his many scars to mere skin blemishes. The remaining blemishes looked almost the same as the scars had. However, the skin was no longer thinned over old injuries. She repaired his muscles, nerves and bones as she went.

She had done it, little by little, using surplus energy gifted by an orb sister. She had done it by touching each scar, and slowly initiating regeneration. Some of the healing continued slowly over a few days' time, and finished after she stopped touching him. However, she would always verify that it was working before she stopped each evening.

He had not known it at the time, but he did learn it later. Her heart was breaking as she healed his body. She had believed he loved another, and she expected that healing would be a parting gift before he left her forever.

He'd wondered, after learning this, how she managed to bear the pain without crying over the earlier evenings. Her tears had flowed constantly during that last evening of healing.

"Shyla," he whispered. Since the dream was about memories, and he had not called her name when this happened, she did not react. He caressed her arm as she reached out and began to heal him, but since he'd not done that when it really happened, she did not respond to his touch, either.

He relaxed, and let it happen. He felt her fingertips gently caressing his scars and his skin. He felt her tears, sometimes falling on his skin between her fingertips. He felt the way her every touch rippled all over his whole body. It felt as if he were made of water, and her touch was dropping pebbles into him: the ripples reached every part.

He lived the memories again. First the healing, followed by Shyla's tearful almost-confession, and his proposal... he clung to her, and to the memories. Hours seemed to pass, as each detail replayed itself in his dreaming mind.

The memories eventually reached the point where they were cuddling on her bed, and Shyla fell asleep snuggled against his side. Unlike the night it had happened, he refused to sleep. He wanted to savor the feel of her against his side.

She had snuggled against his right side when she first took him into stasis, slightly more than a month prior to the memories this dream replayed. She had done it again on that night - and nearly every night after that, while they were married. She had lain against his right side when she went into the stasis that killed her.

He laid beside her in the dream, mostly clothed in his pajama bottoms and unbuttoned shirt. She was fully clothed, but he could still feel her shape and her warmth through her clothing. He could feel, through the memories, her heartbeat and breathing. She'd been alive as she lay against his side. God have mercy, he missed that so much...

His tears flowed unchecked. He felt again the chill of the desert night. As when it happened, he began pulling the blankets around them, to push away the chill. His stomach was still sore, too sore to lift her, but at least he could pull the blankets around them from underneath.

Then something strange happened. He heard a sound at the window. He turned his head, surprised that the dream was not precisely following the memories. When he looked through the window, it felt as if his heart skipped a beat.

There, slapping at the window, was Shyla. Her hair was almost entirely black, with only a narrow streak of blonde over one temple that glistened in the moonlight. She wasn't wearing anything she had worn that night, but instead she wore the attire she had on the last time he'd seen her alive: the remnants of her sliced body armor.

He looked to his side, and the remembered Shyla began to fade away. Already she was only insubstantial mist in his arms. His own attire changed from the pajama bottoms and unbuttoned shirt to what he had been wearing before he fell asleep.

He looked out the window again, and the black-haired Shyla reached for him with a desperately pleading expression on her dear, sweet face.

He was up and off the bed before he knew it, still sore with remembered pain. He placed his hands on the glass. He saw her place her hands against his, on the other side of the glass. He saw her mouth form his name, but he could hear nothing.

"Shyla!" he called to her. "Shyla!"

He drew back his left arm, and punched the glass with all his might. It shattered, and he began to reach for her...

Suddenly, he was awake in the half-forgotten infirmary where he'd been told that she'd died.

"Shyla!" he said, and felt tears spill out of his eyes onto his cheeks.

It was a few heartbeats before he realized that he was not alone. Someone had a hold of him. He pulled away, disoriented. The dream had seemed so real. Who...?

Naomi. Dear daughter... and crying. She must have stayed with him while he slept. A glance at the chronometer indicated he'd overslept badly. It was nearly noon.

Yet... no, Naomi was not the only presence he felt. Was he losing his mind? He could swear that he still felt Shyla's presence, as he'd felt her outside the window in the dream. Her presence was faint, barely detectable, but it was _there_.

"Shyla," her name spilled unbidden from his mouth again. He looked around, trying to figure out where or how he felt her. The illusion was not going away. If anything, the sense of his wife's presence seemed ever so very slightly less faint. "Shyla?"

He looked at Naomi. She was crying harder, but she was also nodding. (Yes, Papa,) she thought.

In the dream, Shyla had been behind a barrier... suddenly his mind was recalling the way Seeds ships' secondary infirmaries were constructed. Behind Naomi would be the emergency cryo unit, closed into a panel.

He stood and walked around her, and touched the unobtrusive control that would slide the panel away. Then he touched the control to illumine the unit, and dared to look.

There Shyla lay, exactly as he'd seen her in the dream. Her hair was nearly all black, and she was covered in a blanket. Remnants of her sliced body armor showed around her shoulders.

His knees buckled as he reached for her. It took several tries, but he finally found his voice. "Get her out of there, _now_!"


	4. Sleep

_Vash the Stampede belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me._

...

**Sleep**

_40 years and one day earlier_...

...

The unexpected attack, and the battle it caused, seemed to have begun days or weeks ago. They looked at each other, and the battlefield, though veils of tears. Shyla watched as Vash quickly rolled away the adults that had fallen atop the sedated child. Then he took her arm and began pulling her away from the battlefield.

Didn't he want to bandage them? That's what he would usually do. "Vash?" she asked.

He said nothing: not vocally, and not in thought. He only kept his hold on her arm, and propelled her farther out into the desert at the swiftest pace they could both bear. Since both were limping from knife wounds, that pace fell well short of their usual.

She was worried about him. Her defensive wings had been out, and functioning automatically to defend both of them. The wings had deflected all of the thrown knives aimed at her, but only some of those aimed at him. The attackers kept trying to separate them, and, at times, they'd succeeded. When separated, he'd been just far enough away that she was unable to shield him with her wings. For this reason, among others, she fought to stay near him.

What troubled her most was that the attackers had brought nets, and kept throwing one over Vash whenever they had briefly pried the two of them apart. Shyla could think of nothing good that might come from Vash being captured by these people.

She imagined horrible things that hatred-crazed humans might do to Vash, if they had him helpless and in their power. His numerous scars bore mute witness that he'd already suffered at the hands of the cruel. So, for fear of what might befall him, she had fought more for him than for herself.

He still wasn't speaking, not even in thought. He was only propelling the two of them farther away from the battlefield as quickly as they could go.

After about ten minutes he stopped, and began removing the sliced remnants of her body armor. She tried to do the same for him, but he caught her hands and shook his head. "Ladies first," he'd said, and then turned on one of those charming lopsided grins that he _knew_ she could never resist.

She was in pain, but not badly injured. After he finished bandaging her, he pulled what little of her body armor remained intact over the bandages. Then he gasped, his face went pale, and he fell onto the sand at her feet.

Instantly she knelt beside him, and began removing his leather-like armor and running her hands over his body. With her medical experience, it didn't take her long to determine that one of his lungs had collapsed. She had successfully cured other patients from that condition, but that was in clinics and hospitals.

Never had she needed to tend anything this severe out on the open desert, with nothing but bandages. She told him what had happened. He was squirming and twitching, probably as involuntary reactions to the intensity of the pain he was suffering.

(Don't risk... yourself... for me... Mayfly,) he begged in thought. (If I ... cannot ... survive... let me... go. You ... stay for... children.)

(You should know by know that I can't do such a thing,) Shyla responded. (Now hold still, while I look you over. If you make yourself worse, it could hurt both of us.)

(I will... tell Rem,) he offered, clenching his teeth against the pain.

(Good idea,) Shyla replied, still gently searching over his body with her hands. She felt his thoughts reach out to their eldest daughter as she continued checking him for other injuries.

He could breathe, thanks to his other lung, but the pain must have been excruciating. His thoughts came in bursts, as if he were speaking between gasps for air.

(Mayfly,) he thought, (please... promise... nothing... rash!)

She felt the icy fingers of terror reaching around her inner parts. That was the second time in only a very short while that he'd asked her not to extend herself for him. Her gaze moved from his body to his face. (What do you mean by that?) she asked.

(Just what... I asked,) he thought. (You are... precious... resource... this world... needs you.) His body tensed in another spasm from the pain.

He never wanted her to use her plant energy on him. Was he only worried about the collapsed lung? She closed her eyes, unwilling to take any chances with this one who was dearer to her than life itself. She sent a quick surge of plant energy through him, and sensed exactly how many and how severe his injuries were.

She felt her face contort as she opened her eyes. His injuries were lethal. He must have known this. That explained his efforts to prevent her from attempting to heal him.

(Can't fix... Don't try... Please... Children...) his thoughts whispered into her mind.

(Our children need their father worse than they need me, just as this planet does,) she responded.

Her tears flowed freely. She had to move quickly, or he would expire right there on the sand in front of her. She continued arguing with him in thought as she swathed his body with bandages. The bleeding had to get under control, and quickly.

_God, please_, she prayed in her heart, _get help here in time to save his life_.

Today was the reality of the nightmares that had haunted her since the second year she'd known him. He was mortally injured, and his only hope of survival was if she spent her life to save his. Even then, she might fail and he might die. But she had to try.

She felt a small, selfish regret that she could neither have nor adopt any more children. She would have no more opportunities to watch her descendants grow. There would be no more sunsets, no more star-gazing, no more... she firmly forbade herself to think such thoughts any longer.

She completely believed that he was more important. If only one of them could live after today, then that one must be him. However, that knowledge and belief didn't make what would shortly happen any easier.

She'd spent centuries perfecting her ability to enter a deeper stasis. She'd practiced nearly every night after he fell asleep. She set a time limit when practicing, so that she would awaken automatically after only a very short time in deep stasis with him.

While in the deeper stasis she had thus practiced, she would be thoroughly tuned to _his_ life and _his_ bodily rhythms. Everything she had, everything she was, would pour into him, to give him the best possible chance of survival. Only direct skin contact with Vash, when he was healthy enough that no stasis was needed, could awaken her.

She quickly assembled a complete memory package, and tenderly placed her hands on either side of his face. She leaned forward, touching her forehead to his, and reached out with her consciousness. He opened his mind for her, and she offered him the package that contained all of her memories up to that very moment.

He accepted, thinking (?).

She could feel his confusion, and for some reason it made her smile both inside and out. She gently yet swiftly withdrew from his mind, caressing his face with her fingers. She kissed his mouth, as tenderly and passionately as she dared permit herself the time to do.

(Now, no matter what happens, I shall always be with you,) she whispered into his mind.

She began sharing love with all of their children and descendants, both biological and adopted. There wasn't time to send individual messages to each, so she sent all of her love, which was not reserved for either Vash or God, to all of them simultaneously.

He again pleaded that she would not risk herself. Dear, precious Vash... always so quick to think of others, and yet he still severely undervalued himself. (You are more important,) she thought.

(I'm not! Please, don't,) he begged.

There was sorrow blended into the tenderness she shared with him. If more than two millennia of her loving him were insufficient for him to understand how very worthy of love and life he was, then perhaps it was better that she died. This was clear evidence to her that she still didn't love him enough. Perhaps another could heal his heart, where she had failed.

(I must, dearest,) she thought gently.

She lay against his right side, resting her head on his shoulder as she had done nearly every night since they married. She slipped her right hand down his face to his throat, until her hand rested over a pulse-point.

(By saving you, I help everyone more than I ever could by living without you,) she thought to him. (I realized that long ago. You know how to love everyone, and they desperately need your love. Me... I only know how to love you.)

(Not true!) he protested.

(I will always love you, Vash,) she thought into his mind, and then she went into the deep stasis. She was mostly content that she had not failed in this part of her destiny. She was giving him a chance to live, that he'd not have else.

It felt like falling, but slowly and inward instead of rapidly downward as would happen if she jumped off a tall place. After a while, it began to feel like falling slowly upward and outward.

Then something strange happened. Instead of seeming to fall asleep and know nothing until she wakened, as happened during all prior times when she'd gone into a stasis, she seemed to come into a large area made of dark grey clouds. There was a floor, and a high ceiling, and walls that began at the floor and extended perhaps waist-high. Through the opening that was perhaps a body-length and a half tall, she saw stars.

She landed softly on her feet, and began to look around.

In front of her was a ladder that appeared to be made of highly polished gold that practically glowed. The ladder extended upward out of sight. Luminous beings were traveling up and down that ladder. Most of them were humanoid, and several of them had wings. Some of the ones traveling upward carried figures in their arms that looked like people: both adults and children.

To one side of the unusual ladder was a large, terribly dark hole that had even darker wisps of smoke rising from it. Dark beings, so dark that it seemed as if they radiated darkness in a manner similar to how the others radiated light, were going into and out of that hole. Some of the dark ones had wings also, but their wings were as dark as they.

A few of the dark ones had a hold of adult figures, which they were dragging by one ankle when they went into the hole. Unlike the figures gently cradled in the arms of the light beings, which rested quietly as they were carried, the ones dragged by the dark beings struggled and often appeared to be screaming. Thankfully, she heard no sound.

Two of the dark ones, who were not dragging anyone, abruptly rushed toward her with fierce expressions. Suddenly, two of the bright ones were between her and them. The bright ones drove off the dark ones, and then stood on either side of her.

"Thank you," she said nervously.

They smiled at her, and each offered her a single nod in acknowledgement.

She felt a little shaken, so she sat down where she was. She noticed a narrow gap in the clouds, perhaps three finger-widths across, that continued as far to each side as she could see. It was slightly more than an arm's length in front of her, and it appeared to be filled with clear water. She looked back up at the two who still stood watch on either side of her, between her and the narrow strip of water.

"Are you plants, too?" she asked.

They smiled again, and shook their heads.

Puzzled, she looked at them more carefully. These two were much taller than she; they were perhaps a head and shoulders taller than Vash would be, if he were standing here also. They were much brawnier than her husband, and oddly dressed.

Each wore a tunic and pants, with something resembling leather armor over the tunic, and closed-toe sandals that were flexible yet looked as if they were made of copper. Each had a sheathed sword belted onto one hip, and carried a spear in his left hand - she recognized the weapons from history tapes she'd seen on the Seeds ship's computer.

After thinking a little longer, she looked up at the two guarding her again. "If you're not plants, that some people call 'angels' (even though we're not), are you... perhaps... real angels?" she asked.

Both smiled again; one nodded.

"Who are they?" she asked, pointing toward the dark beings.

The one who had nodded raised a single finger, as if requesting silence, and then pointed toward the others of his kind. One was approaching them. He was shorter and leaner than the two guarding her, though glowing no less brilliantly. His attire was different from theirs; he bore no weapons, and wore no armor. His clothing was a very pale shade of blue.

"Welcome, sister," he said kindly when he arrived.

Shyla was confused. "I asked these gentlemen if they were plants, and they shook their heads," she said. "So if you're not plants, how can I be your sister?"

"No, we're not plants," he said, smiling amiably. "We are the Faithful. All who believe, pray sincerely, and try their best to live right, are as sisters and brothers to us."

That matched what the preacher taught in church well enough to satisfy her curiosity on that subject. "Who are they?" she asked him, again pointing toward the dark ones.

"They are the Fallen," he said. "Just as Knives abandoned the ways of light, so they have done."

"Knives changed from fear," he continued, before she could say anything. "He mistakenly thought that the only way to protect himself from a fate like the first Tessla's was to exterminate all ordinary humans. He began from an incorrect assumption, and thereafter clung to it so tightly that he deceived himself. He succumbed to many dark temptations, including arrogance and a lust for power, because of that fear. His life became a double tragedy: not only was his own existence wasted, but he also harmed and destroyed the lives of others."

"The Fallen abandoned the ways of light from mere greed and arrogance," he added. "They knew exactly what they were doing, from the very beginning, and have continued to harm and destroy ever since. Unlike Knives, who could have received mercy if he had ever corrected his ways, their choice is eternal."

Shyla could think of no response to that information, partly since it also matched reasonably well with what she'd learned in church. Instead, she asked another question about a different subject. "Where am I?"

"At the line that divides between life and death," he replied. "You will be safe here as long as you need to stay. However, you must not cross this line." He indicated the narrow strip of water. "It is not yet your time."

"It will be soon, though," she blurted out, and then bit her lip. She still didn't really want to die, but current circumstances would cause that result in two or three days at the most.

Another Faithful angel came, bearing a limp figure in his arms. He landed beside one of her guards, and the guard stepped aside for him. The newly arrived angel began to lower Vash toward the ground between herself and the line. She reached out, and the angel placed her husband so that his head and shoulders rested on her left arm.

She pulled Vash closer, curling her left hand around his shoulder and resting her cheek against his forehead. Her right hand rested first on his shoulder, and then slipped upward to touch his face and stroke his shoulder-length black hair. She looked up at the only angel who had spoken to her.

"It is not yet his time, either," he said. "Your prayers, and those of your children, have not been unheard. Nor was it ever his destiny to die today."

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Thank God, not me," he replied. "I am only a Messenger. He commands all things."

Shyla nodded, and closed her eyes to offer up a brief yet heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving.

Shyla opened her eyes and saw more Faithful bearing human-like figures. She saw a face she recognized as that angel took her burden across the line. "Milly?" She gasped.

"Sadly, you and your husband were not the only ones attacked," the Messenger said. "You have done well, teaching all of your children in the way they should go. They did not depart from it when they were old. They will be carried home, where none can ever harm them again."

"But we're only plants," she said, confused.

"You still have souls," he replied. "Because you taught them to believe, and pray, and live right, the souls of your family will not be lost. Try to be comforted by this. It will not reduce the pain at first. In time, however, it may help your heart to heal."

"After today," she said slowly, "Will Vash live?" She continued cradling him against her chest and shoulder.

"Yes," the messenger said. "He will return to the land of the living. His days are not even near to ending."

"Thank you ... for telling me that," she said. That meant her sacrifice would not be in vain. He would live. She couldn't help her dead children, beyond joining them shortly. At least Vash would be there for the others.

"Your days are not near to ending, either," he said. "You, also, will return to the land of the living. However, you will be here much longer than he. You will be safe here, until the appointed time."

She looked up at him in surprise. "What does that mean?" she asked.

"He needs to learn and remember a few things," he said. "Sometime after that, you will return to him. Fear not: all will be well."

"And do not fear that you have failed him in other ways, either," he added. "You have already helped to heal his heart of many wounds. You will be instrumental in healing him further, after you are restored to him."

The Messenger nodded to her politely, before turning and walking away.

Shyla saw more of the Faithful angels pass by. They were bearing her children, grandchildren, and other descendants - both biological and adopted. Brad, Livio, Sheryl, Daniel... so many others. She wept for the years they should have had, and for the terrible, violent way their lives were cut short.

She continued cradling Vash, holding him close, kissing and caressing his face, stroking his hair, and weeping. She bathed him in her love, sharing that emotion constantly.

There was no day or night there: only a deep blue star-filled sky showed between the clouds. Time continued to pass, and the Faithful continued climbing and descending the ladder. The Fallen also continued to pass, occasionally glaring toward her and the two who stood by her. She was grateful for the presence of those two guards.

She dimly sensed, as if at a very great distance, the emotional echoes of some of her children who had not been carried past her and up the ladder. She tried to reach out to them with her emotions, to share her love for them, but they seemed too far away.

Apparently, she had attuned herself so thoroughly to Vash that he was the only one she could reach out toward successfully.

Eventually, and she knew not if it was days, weeks or months later, she began to feel cold and sluggish and sleepy.

She gently lowered Vash to the floor of the cloud-like area where they found themselves, and then lay herself down beside him. She rested her head on his right shoulder, closed her eyes, and sank into sleep.

...

She was dimly aware of Vash being removed. She tried to reach toward him, but he was already gone. The Faithful and the Fallen appeared to be moving much faster than formerly. She couldn't keep up with watching them moving at such dizzying speed, so she closed her eyes again, her arms still reaching across the ground where Vash had been.

...

Some time later, she sensed Vash near and tried to reach out to him with her emotions. But he was gone by the time she managed to reach out for him. She cried herself to sleep again, aching for him.

...

... _Present day_...

...

She had no idea how many times she'd reached for Vash, after feeling as if he was near, and failed. She sensed him near again, and again reached toward him though fearing the result would be the same as all the prior times.

However, this time when she closed her eyes and concentrated, she began to see a room forming. She stood outside the window of the house where they had lived, and looked into their bedroom. Vash lay there beside her, on the bed. She recognized the clothes they were wearing, and the fact that they lay on top of the blankets instead of beneath them. He was in memories of the evening when they became engaged.

She slapped the window, and tried to call his name. A wind seemed to catch the sound away from her mouth as soon as she spoke. She slapped the window again, harder. He turned his head toward her.

The memory of herself rapidly faded away. He blurred, and then he was standing by the window, his clothing changed from what he'd worn that night to a different shirt (that was buttoned up, instead of open) and pants.

She kept slapping at the window, and calling his name. For a moment, it seemed his hands were spread exactly aligned with hers, though on the other side of the glass. Then she saw him punch at the glass, his arm moving in a blur. He disappeared.

"Vash!" she called again, and began to cry.

Then there was movement; that "falling slowly" sensation returned. She couldn't open her eyes. She felt colder and colder as she fell farther and farther.

She shivered, and for a time she felt entirely numb.

Little by little, sensation returned. A heartbeat, far too rapid, but very gradually beginning to slow... she didn't know how or why, but she felt that it was Vash's heart she heard.

Warmth was dimly felt on her face, hands, chest and stomach. That sensation grew stronger as the sound of the heartbeat slowed toward normal.

She began to sense breathing, of someone other than herself, and pressure against her skin. Shoes were on her feet, and cloth rested or pressed against her legs and lower body. Against her upper body, she felt... skin?

Sensations slowly clarified further. It _was_ skin that she felt against her stomach and chest, and it was familiar: Vash. She knew the feel of his body almost as well as her own. He was holding her hands against his neck, while laying on her and kissing her face.

Her hands slowly moved almost of their own accord, slipping around behind his neck to return his embrace. When his mouth moved over hers, she kissed him back.

He raised his face off hers, and she opened her eyes. It took a few heartbeats for her eyes to focus properly, but when they did, she saw that he was smiling. She smiled back.

"Oh thank God," the voice sounded like Naomi's. What was Naomi doing in their bedroom?

She looked past Vash's face to see not the ceiling of their bedroom, but one made of metal. As that oddity was sinking in, she heard Tessla echoing Naomi's sentiments, and William's voice asking, "Can I turn around yet?"

"No," Vash said, his smile widening.

She felt heat in her face as he began moving without getting off of her. It took a few heartbeats before she realized that he was removing his shirt. Apparently, he'd unbuttoned his shirt so that their skin could touch, but he'd not previously removed it.

He helped her to sit up, while still holding her so close that her front was covered by his body. Then he slid his shirt onto her arms and shoulders. Only then did he move away, and that only just enough for her to button the front of his shirt over her own body.

Why in the world would he do something so intimate as lying on top of her, skin-to-skin from the waist upward, in front of their children? And where were they all gathered?

Vash was still grinning widely, and leaned toward her to hug and kiss her again. She still felt heat in her face, but she hugged him back even though she turned her cheek to accept his kiss instead of allowing it to land on her mouth as he'd clearly intended.

He chuckled. (Always so bashful, my sweet Shyla,) he thought affectionately. He gently took her hand into his. (I'm not ashamed of loving you.)

Before she could respond, Naomi spoke.

"You can turn around now, guys," Naomi said. "And Papa, before you do any more of that, we really need to check her over and make sure there were no malfunctions that might have harmed her."

She looked past Vash toward Naomi. "Where am I, and _what_ is going on here?"

"We had to put you into cryo sleep, Mama," Naomi answered. "Your hair was turning black too quickly, and Papa wasn't well yet. We took turns going into stasis with him until he recovered."

"So it wasn't a dream," she whispered, stricken. Her eyes briefly swam with tears, which quickly overflowed. "Sheryl, Brad, Livio, Milly, Daniel... so many others... they're all dead?"

Vash's grin vanished as he gently squeezed her hand, and Naomi said, "Yes, Mama. Most of us were killed. But how did you know?"

"I saw them," Shyla said softly.

Naomi moved around her father to Shyla's other side, so that she could do the needful post-awakening checks. Shyla submitted to them quietly.

William, after turning, started removing his jacket. He offered it to his father, who accepted. Vash let go of her hand just long enough to put the jacket on and fasten the front. Then he took her hand again.

Shyla noticed several faces that seemed mildly familiar. To her further embarrassment, she could not name them. They radiated a blend of affection, relief, and gladness that she had awakened.

One stepped forward. "I'm Martha, great-great-great-granddaughter of your son Bradley," she said. "I was barely speaking when last I saw you. It's good to see you well again."

Shyla nodded her thanks, for her throat was still too choked with grief for the deceased for her to speak clearly.

One by one, each of the others stepped forward. Ruth, Lydia, Deborah, Matthew, Jonah, Sharon and Angelina each introduced themselves, and said which of her children was their ancestor. Each was descended from a different son or daughter. She greeted each one the same as the first, grateful that they were willing to introduce themselves. They had grown so much since she saw them as babies or toddlers that she would not have recognized them without that assistance.

Shortly after the introductions were complete, Naomi stepped back and nodded. "All right, you two may go home," she said. "But Papa, take it easy on her. Although we regenerated her body where she was injured, you know that doesn't return full strength. She's likely to be weak, and need extra rest."

She raised an eyebrow, looking meaningfully at Vash.

He blushed. "I'll be good," he said contritely. "Or, at least, I'll try."

Naomi sighed, with enough exaggerated patience that Shyla knew even without sampling her emotions that their daughter was teasing Vash.

"I suppose that will have to do," she said. "Now get out of here. This is a place for sick people." She made shooing motions with her hands, and smiled. "Welcome back, Mama," she added. Shyla saw that Naomi wore a wedding ring, but had no opportunity to say anything.

Vash tugged impatiently on her hand, and she allowed him to lead her out of the room toward their home.


	5. Sinister Sentiments

_Vash the Stampede belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me._

_Approximately 3040 years after the manga ends..._

...

...

**Sinister Sentiments**

Kendra.

She'd heard their mother curse her half-sister's name throughout her entire life. Kendra had failed the Crooked Leaf, because of allowing a mere desire for a male to eclipse her true purpose. At least it had been a _plant_ male that captured her attention so thoroughly, but still...

After Kendra made a spectacle of herself at Nick and Clara's wedding, and did it so thoroughly that she had been arrested for it, Kamila had ordered her execution. In Kamila's opinion, Kendra was of no more use to anyone.

Kuntha used to think that had been too harsh. She used to think that, if her half-sister had been gotten out of prison instead, she might still have been of use to the Crooked Leaf. Kamila had scolded her for being too soft.

That was before her mother had been killed. All softness within Kuntha had died with Kamila, 40 years ago.

Kuntha continued walking into the desert, away from all signs of civilization. She had an appointment with nature, which would (at least, partially) cleanse her from the taint of human contact.

She would do better than her accursed half-sister. She was the heir. She could become the high priestess of the Crooked Leaf, as her mother had been before her. She would not permit her human blood to be too great of an obstacle for her to reach this goal. She would step into that inheritance, completely. She would make the Crooked Leaf far greater than it had been in her mother's time.

Kamila had kept her out running errands in her youth. She'd run so many errands away from the headquarters of the Crooked Leaf that she'd come to know only a few of her mother's human slaves. She didn't even know if she'd ever met her own father. Her mother had often said that the slaves didn't matter, and that they were easily replaced. So Kuntha hadn't paid much attention to them.

Now she needed slaves. She needed the power of numbers.

Right after the Saverems' raid on the cave system where her mother had made her headquarters, Kuntha had slain a human woman that looked much like herself. She'd also killed an assortment of other co-workers. She left a baked clay disk, with the Crooked Leaf symbol on it, resting on the body of the woman who had so strongly resembled herself.

That tactic appeared to have worked so well that when she applied under a different name, to a similar position, in a different town, only two months later, she was hired with no questions asked. It also appeared to have satisfied the humans that the mole within Sheriff Central was gone.

She had approached a few known Crooked Leaf slaves whom she could find, courtesy of her job at Sheriff Central. They had immediately disappeared. She heard co-workers voicing concerns that they had rejoined the Crooked Leaf, and she smiled inside herself.

No, they had not rejoined the Crooked Leaf. Instead, they had run like the spineless cowards that they were - afraid of fulfilling their oaths. However, it pleased her to sense that others still feared the Crooked Leaf. This would make it easier to restore.

Humans always craved someone to lead them. She was not a pure plant, as her mother had been. She agreed with her mother: she wished Knives was her father, instead of one of Kamila's numerous human slaves. However, she was still superior to those who lacked any plant blood at all.

It was time to assert that superiority.

Word had come that there would be a Saverem wedding in December. It was very likely that all of the surviving independent plants would attend. She would rally those she could reclaim of the old Crooked Leaf, and she would add others to their numbers.

They would attend the wedding, and capture at least the two male plants who had proven themselves able to father sons. While there, they would also capture as many of the other male plants as they could. There was little need to preserve many of the females: she, herself, would become the mother of the new generation of plants.

However, if there chanced to be any among the plant females who showed themselves docile, they might be permitted to serve her and provide more children for her to train. She could mate with their sons, and spread the plant population even further.

Both Vash and Nicholas had, according to all reports, lived entirely celibate for the last 40 years... unless Chronica had been attending to Nicholas' needs. But Chronica was so cold; Kuntha suspected that Chronica's services might fall short of what a healthy male would truly crave.

Kuntha anticipated that their desperate cravings for stimulating contact would make them easily bow to her demands. If they proved shy, there were drugs to encourage libido - even in plants.

She smiled in anticipation. She had been thoroughly trained in every technique that her mother ever knew. Both Vash and Nicholas would be entirely helpless in her hands, as would any other male that she desired.

She was going to be too busy for a thorough cleansing, for quite some time to come. For this reason, she was especially glad that a sandstorm was seen approaching, within walking distance of her current home city.

The sands would sting, but once she regenerated the skin thus worn off, she would feel refreshed and renewed. Only individuals with plant blood could be cleansed in this manner.

She found a boulder that she could lean against, to prevent herself from being blown away. She disrobed completely, tied up her clothing, and anchored the resulting bundle with a smaller rock against the boulder.

Then she turned toward the storm, held out her arms as if to embrace it, and waited.


	6. December

_Vash the Stampede belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me._

_Approximately 3040 years after the manga ends..._

...

...

**December**

Two days after Shyla was safely awakened from cryo sleep, Frank returned.

He pulled Naomi into a hug as soon as he saw her, and said, "It's so good to be home!" before kissing her soundly.

"It's good to have you home," she said, after catching her breath. "I've missed you so much! And I have some wonderful news for you."

"I have good news, too," he said, smiling. "We succeeded. Our orb-sister will be fine."

"That is great news!" Naomi enthused. She hugged her husband again.

"And there's more," he said mysteriously.

"What?" she asked, both surprised and puzzled.

"Nicholas proposed to Chronica on the evening before I left," he said. "They'll be getting married at the end of next month, and everyone's invited."

"I'm sure we'll all be there," she said, "and happier than we would have been last month. Frank, Mama's _awake_. Papa knew how to wake her safely. She's alive, Frank! She's _alive!_"

"Oh thank God!" he said, and hugged her some more. "Will Papa let us visit? I'd really like to see her."

Naomi directed her thoughts toward her parents' home, and felt emotional echoes from both of them. It felt like Shyla was asleep, dreaming. Vash was awake. "I'll ask," she said.

(Papa, Frank's come home, and he'd like to visit you and Mama. Is now a good time?) she asked in thought. (I should probably check her over again anyhow...)

(She's still asleep this morning,) his reply came, (though I'm sure she will be glad to see the two of you. We'd both worried about you, over the years. It's good to see you so happily married.)

Naomi blushed. (We'll be there shortly,) she thought to her father. To Frank, she said, "He's expecting us."

"Dandy," Frank said, finally releasing her. "I'll expect a more thorough 'welcome home' from you later, perhaps tonight. For now, let's go see Papa and Mama."

Naomi's fading blush returned full-strength, and she nodded. She'd fully understood why her parents wanted some time alone, after being apart for so long. She wanted some time alone with her own husband for exactly the same reason, even though their separation had been much shorter. Somehow talking about it out loud always felt awkward, though.

Frank kissed her forehead. "You really are a lot like Mama," he said fondly.

"Let's go," she said, "before we find ourselves doing what Papa and Mama have been doing, a lot, since she awoke."

Frank laughed, and took her hand. "Good plan," he said.

They put on wraps and walked the short distance to the small house where Vash had lived since the rescued boys were old enough to move out (the girls had been divided between Rem and Jared's house, and Naomi and Frank's). They went in softly, so as not to startle Shyla awake.

Frank went to visit with Vash in the kitchen, and Naomi went into the bedroom where her mother still slept.

Shyla lay on her left side, with her black hair spread over the pillow and her shoulders. Her pajamas covered her arms, and her shoulders underneath her hair. Her right arm reached toward the place where Vash had slept beside her.

Naomi sat on the edge of the bed, and gently stroked her mother's soft hair. "Mama?" she said softly.

Shyla moved, and then slowly began to stretch, and then reached again toward the place where Vash had slept. She began to sit up, looking a little disoriented.

"He's in the kitchen, making breakfast," Naomi told her.

Shyla relaxed immediately. Her eyes focused on her daughter's face. "Good morning, Naomi," she said, and smiled.

"Good morning, Mama," Naomi replied. "Frank's home, and wanted to see you again. I don't know if Papa's had time to tell you... Frank and I are married now."

"Congratulations!" Shyla said happily, and finished sitting up so that she could hug her daughter.

"Thanks," Naomi said softly as she returned her mother's hug. "How are you doing?"

"I'm ... doing," she said, leaning back from the embrace. "I feel very different, now. I tried yesterday... I can't hold a gift of energy like I used to. My body has changed. I can't heal plant-style anymore, and I'm not quite sure what to do with myself."

"I'm sure we'll find something for you," Naomi said as reassuringly as she could. "You still know human medicine far better than most humans. I expect there will be plenty you can do to keep busy, once you're fully back on your feet."

"Is Sharon still in charge of surgeries for female patients?" Shyla asked softly, "or has she retired? I'm still getting used to the idea that forty years have passed. I was aware that time was passing, but not how much."

"You were awake?" Naomi said, startled.

"Part of the time my mind was awake," Shyla said. "And Sharon?"

"Oh, sorry," Naomi said. "Yes, Sharon is still managing surgeries, even though most times either Miriam or Elizabeth does the actual operation."

"I'll need their help," Shyla said, "today, if possible."

"Why?" Naomi asked, worried. "Is something else wrong with you, something that I missed?"

Shyla took and squeezed Naomi's hand. "Have you had any children, yet?" she asked.

"No, not yet," Naomi said. "We were waiting until Sheriff Central had some adoptees to raise with them."

"Then you wouldn't know," Shyla said softly. "A tremendous amount of energy, both plant and body, goes to the little ones as they grow inside. I don't have enough left, Naomi. If I forgot to take a pill... I don't think I'd live long enough to give birth."

Naomi gasped. She knew how much her mother loved children. She knew this must be a terribly painful realization for her. "I'm so sorry," she said softly, blinking back tears.

"I took pills immediately upon arriving here, before Vash finished welcoming me back to the land of the living," she said, blushing slightly. "And I have taken them every day since. However, I can't risk forgetting. I need a surgery that will make it impossible for me to get pregnant, ever again, without preventing me from... functioning normally... with your father."

"I understand," Naomi said. "We'll get on that right away. You may still be a little sore when we go to December next month, but you should be able to travel."

"What's happening in December?" Shyla asked.

"Nicholas is marrying Chronica," Naomi said, smiling. "They've been dating all this time, and he finally proposed to her."

Shyla blinked. "That's unexpected," she said thoughtfully. "It wouldn't have occurred to me that those two would suit each other so well. However, I'm glad that neither of them must continue to be lonely. I hope they'll be very happy together. Yes, I want to go and wish them well at their wedding."

"I'll see what can be arranged," Naomi promised. "As soon as possible, so you'll have more time to recover before traveling."

"Thank you," Shyla said. "When I offered my life to save your father's, I thought I would die. I didn't realize that I could survive, but still lose everything I had previously lived for... except him."

Naomi squeezed her mother's hand, trying her best to offer comfort. "At least you're alive," she said. "You can learn to make whatever changes are needed. Papa had to learn this, too, when his hair went black. I know he will help you all that he can."

"I know he will, too," she said, smiling. "I'm not complaining, not really. He's worth every difficulty. It's only that it is already much more difficult than I could ever have imagined. And I've only been awake for a few days... it's a little alarming to think of what other challenges may lie ahead."

"I'm sorry," Naomi said softly, and hugged her again.

Shyla hugged her second-eldest daughter again, and said, "I'll manage, and I'll learn. It just may take me enough time that I'll look like a complete dunce to everyone before I get there."

Naomi laughed. She couldn't help it. "Anyone who underestimates you _that_ badly... well, all I can say is that their opinion isn't worth worrying about!"

Shyla chuckled. "I guess you have a point, there," she said.

"Now I'd best examine you, and make sure that nothing else needs looking into," Naomi said, releasing her mother from the hug.

Shyla smiled, and caressed her cheek. "I'm so very proud of you, darling," she said softly. "You've grown up so well."

Naomi blushed. "Hush now," she said, though she was smiling. "I need to concentrate..." and she began a complete medical examination of her mother.

...

The trip to December had been uneventful, but interesting. Shyla spent most of the time telling them about what she'd seen before she grew cold and sleepy, presumably when they put her into cryo sleep. It was a fascinating insight into things that usually went unseen.

As the Messenger had warned, the initial pain of loss was not diminished by knowing where they went. However, forty years later, it _was_ a comfort to know that the souls of their deceased loved ones were living on, and at peace. It helped to know that they might see all of their departed family members again, in a better place, whenever their own days ran out.

Naomi found herself a place to sit in the large cathedral. It had an abundance of stained glass windows, which filtered the sunlight into shafts of multicolored light that made the whole place seem to glow. The stone building made it cooler than outdoors, and the multicolored light made it feel festive even without any decorations.

She privately wondered whether it had been Nicholas or Chronica who'd chosen this particular church as the place for their wedding. She saw some vaguely familiar faces, of people whose pictures Nicholas had shown her and whom he'd described as co-workers.

As the time for the wedding drew nearer, the place was filling up. Perhaps the size of the anticipated crowd had something to do with the choice of building, also. She saw relatives on both sides of the church, and was glad for that. It would be sad if everyone sat on Nicholas' side, and Chronica's was empty.

She recalled overhearing Nicholas inquiring of their father why he had no apprentices, and the reply, years ago when the younger generation had all been assigned mentors.

Vash had said that Nicholas had other concerns he needed to tend first. Nicholas couldn't focus on training apprentices until certain decisions were made, nor could he make those decisions as well if he was distracted by apprentices. Vash had warned Nicholas that there would be apprentices another time, so Nicholas had best enjoy the time without them to its fullest.

Naomi had understood, and tried not to snicker while she stayed out of the room to avoid interrupting. Today was the result: Nicholas had finally decided that he wanted to marry Chronica, and not send her away. She was privately glad, since she could tell that they were both thoroughly miserable alone. She hoped they would be happier together.

Frank was among the ushers, helping people to their seats. He looked so fine in his dress shirt, vest and slacks! She blew him a kiss as he passed, which he made a show of catching. They smiled at each other.

Their own wedding had been far less formal, but they were no less happy together than others who had fancier weddings. She was actually glad that her wedding had been small, with mostly just family for attendees and witnesses. She dreaded the thought of how large the guest list might have grown if all of her patients had learned about it and attended... not to mention the catering bill, to feed so many.

The music began, and the ceremony proceeded mostly traditionally...except when Chronica bluntly stated that she was giving _herself_ away. Naomi was mildly surprised that the traditional inquiry had been included, since Chronica had no father. Then again, it was like her to assert her independence, even in this. Naomi smiled tolerantly, accepting this personality quirk in her new sister-in-law, and continued watching.

A noise of restless movement began in the back, as the clergyman reached that part of the ceremony about how if anyone had reason why those two should not be joined, they should either speak now or else forever keep quiet. Naomi recalled how a girl had made a fuss at Nicholas' first wedding's reception, and she hoped that nothing similar would occur this time.

Unfortunately, those hopes were dashed.

"This ceremony is not recognized," a feminine voice called loudly from the back of the sanctuary. "Humans have no authority to make laws governing plants. You cannot decide how we should behave."

She looked toward the source of the sound, and blinked, her heart beating rapidly. It looked and sounded like Kamila standing there, but Chronica had shot her dead. Naomi had verified that death, personally. She still felt somewhat guilty for being relieved by that death, instead of mourning it.

How... but no, as the woman slowly strode up the aisle, Naomi got a better look at her face. The woman's features were very similar, and looked slightly older, but she was not Kamila. It was someone else who was intruding on her brother's second wedding.

There was a little bit of plant energy radiating from her, but not as much as would be sensed from any of her kin, nor from Chronica, nor even from her mother in her current diminished state. Could this intruder be Kamila's daughter, perhaps by way of a human father?

"Marriage is a _human_ practice," the intruder said distastefully. She continued her overly dramatic and deliberately slow and sensual march toward the front. The sinuous way she walked made Naomi think of a snake's slither. There were a handful of others around her, dressed in the colors of autumn leaves, with similar tailoring to the attire that she wore. "We do not need or want to have _your_ practices imposed upon us."

The woman's emotional echoes were severe and unyielding, as Kamila's had been. Even her scanty attire was very similar to Kamila's, including the medallion she wore on a chain that dangled nearly to her stomach.

Naomi shifted uncomfortably, recalling how cold she'd been in the caves, when compelled to wear such a scanty excuse for clothing in the chill of the night. She'd known it was part of Kamila's manipulation, to make her handmaids so desperate for warmth that they'd engage in reproductive activities upon command, rather than continue shivering.

Naomi considered such coercion deplorable.

It was contrary to church etiquette to bring weapons into the sanctuary. She and most of her family would have observed that protocol, but she guessed that Kamila's successor might not. What could be done? Naomi glanced about, half-frantic, not knowing what to do. She was a healer, not law enforcement. What were her kin in law going to do?

She looked toward her father, and saw him quietly unbuttoning the shirt cuff on his left sleeve - without looking away from the disruptive woman who continued to walk slowly up the center aisle. Of course, Vash would not be weaponless, she realized, though he would be reluctant to fire his weapon in the sanctuary.

Her next concern was for the children present, but then she saw an usher on hands and knees moving along the outside aisle, gesturing. Children were crawling out to him, and then toward the exit. Good, that was already being tended. She began to relax, a little, while still carefully remaining prepared to act immediately in what ever way the situation might require.

"I see that you are rendered speechless by my mere presence," the woman proclaimed arrogantly. "That is wise; for I could easily erase all of you should you displease me." The woman stroked her bare arms meaningfully.

If Naomi's guess was accurate, and the woman was only half-plant, then any effort to fire an arm-cannon would be as likely to kill her as to erase people around her. Why would she even consider such a thing?

Vash's hair had gone black after only four arm-cannon blasts, and two of those had been very brief. Naomi had read records about her father, records that indicated he had considerably more energy than most orb-installed plants, prior to his hair turning black. Even her siblings and younger kin all fell short of the readings Vash had generated when he was at full strength.

The arrogant woman had been walking up the center aisle so slowly, and with such overly dramatic sensuality, that she'd only traveled half the distance when Nicholas challenged her. He stood facing her, at the center of the platform, his legs braced well apart, with his arms folded across his chest. He had a no-nonsense frown on his face, and he sounded uncommonly annoyed.

"What business do you have here," he asked loudly, "that cannot wait until after my wedding? This intrusion is rude."

"You are the one who is rude," she said. "If you wanted sexual satisfaction, you should have come to me. There is no need for these ridiculous _human_ rituals."

"And who are you," he said, "that thinks you are so much better than my chosen bride?"

"I am Kuntha, daughter and heir of Kamila," she said defiantly, "and also High Priestess to the Crooked Leaf. You will come with me, as will all of the other male plants here... and any female plants intelligent enough to follow me. Together, we shall create new generations of plants that will rise to greater heights than have ever before been known. These _things_ will serve us willingly, or they shall all be destroyed."

"I think not," Nicholas said flatly.

Kuntha stopped, shock written all over her arrogant features. "How dare you defy me!" she shouted. "I will show you..."

Her followers immediately backed away from her, their faces all looking terrified. Naomi guessed that this Kuntha must have demonstrated something to alarm them. If so, she was placing herself at an even greater risk, if she planned to use any plant energy in another display here.

There was also the concern that a body partially human might not be able to handle plant energy at full strength, even if it could be generated safely. Kuntha might short-circuit something in her body or brain, or even burn herself up. Naomi was torn between concern for this foolish disruptive woman, and concern for the other people present, as she stood helplessly watching the situation unfold.

Kuntha extended her right arm, and it slowly began to elongate and enlarge into a canon.

Naomi quickly glanced at Nicholas, and saw that he'd put his defensive feathers on automatic. Glancing past him to Chronica, she saw the same thing there. Both had several feathers half-formed along their shoulders, hair, arms, and faces. She followed their example.

Suddenly Naomi recalled that her parents could not use defensive feathers anymore. She glanced at them, and saw that Vash had positioned himself directly between Kuntha and Shyla. He apparently had no intention of living without his wife again.

However, Naomi also saw that Shyla wasn't idle. She had only the slightest, most minimal hint of feathers showing... but they were ready. Shyla had already sacrificed most of her life as a plant to save her husband. She would sacrifice what little remained - and beyond - for his sake, unstintingly and without hesitation.

Naomi briefly prayed for her parents' protection, since she did not want to lose either or both to this misguided woman's rage. She noticed relatives in the benches before and behind her parents, also going feathery, and sighed in relief.

Her attention returned to Kuntha, to see what the intruder would do next.

There was a strange, almost morbid fascination to watching Kuntha's arm transform. Naomi had never seen this before, since it was not something her father taught. He'd warned them that it was possible. He had also warned them strongly against attempting it, and explained about his black hair.

As far as Naomi knew, none of her family had ever tried to use that inherent weapon capability. Even though it could be controlled - and Vash had shared memories about how to control it, in case any of them ever found themselves in need of suppressing it - wielding an arm cannon simply wasn't worth the risk.

Yet this probable hybrid had done so, or had done something similar at least once before, to frighten her followers.

Kuntha's arm canon looked less impressive than the one her father's arm had formed in the memories he'd shared. It had a lot fewer feathers and it was much smaller, overall. She probably couldn't do as much damage as she boasted, at least not by using only that arm cannon.

Naomi noticed a small, slow movement from one corner of her eye. Her younger sister Lina, also all feathery with defensive measures on full automatic, was slowly edging toward Kuntha. Her deputy's badge glinted briefly as she passed through one of the multicolored shafts of light cast by the stained glass windows.

Since Kuntha was one or two benches farther forward than the one where Lina stood, and her attention was focused toward the front of the church, it was likely that Lina's movements were going unobserved. Naomi immediately suppressed her emotions, and did her best to remain still and quiet. She didn't want to be a distraction.

"Which of these inconveniences shall I remove first?" Kuntha said, almost conversationally. Her body was so tense as to be nearly rigid. It showed plainly, because of her excessively scanty attire. She was sweating, too, much more than the heat of the day could explain.

Naomi guessed it was difficult for Kuntha to form or maintain her arm cannon. Any effort to fire it would only tax her further. Did she have any understanding of the risks she was taking?

"I do not give you permission to harm any of them," Nicholas said. His frown was slightly more intense, but he was otherwise unchanged and unmoved. "These are my guests, and they are under my protection. To the best of my knowledge, however, _you_ were not invited."

"You'll pay for that disrespect," Kuntha spat. She began to look around, slinking up the center aisle. Her body remained extremely tense, though her face had resumed its arrogant expression.

Suddenly, she stopped at the bench where Vash and Shyla stood. "No," she said softly. "You're supposed to be dead! But your hair has blackened... I can easily correct that oversight, now. You no longer have the power to prevent me from doing what I wish; nor does he."

Naomi realized that Kuntha was targeting her mother. Everyone else seemed to realize that, too, at the same moment. Martha and Jonah were climbing over the backs of nearby benches, with obvious intent to stand by Vash and Shyla and protect them with their wings. Other kin were also moving toward them, with the same determined expressions on their faces.

Lina had gotten into the aisle, where Kuntha's terrified followers had immediately backed out of her path. She was quietly closing on Kuntha, unopposed. Lina's apprentices, Mark and Josiah, were moving to join her.

While most of the plants had been gathering defensively, some of the humans had been quietly moving toward the exits. Since many of the human guests were either law enforcement officers or their families, most had remained considerably calmer than might otherwise be expected.

However, as Kuntha selected her target and began closing, one of the human women screamed. Most of the remaining humans began running for the nearest exit... including Kuntha's followers.

The twisted priestess paid no attention, possibly assuming that she'd already successfully bullied her followers into unquestioning and endless obedience. The plants paid little attention, being focused on protecting whomever remained.

"Get away from her," Kuntha snarled. "She is nearly human now, and cannot be protected from me."

Vash stubbornly stayed between Kuntha and Shyla.

"Move aside, Vash," Kuntha said. "I still have a use for you. This woman, however, has committed the unforgivable sin of being responsible for Master Knives' death. For this, she must perish. I will destroy her, and I will _enjoy_ doing it."

"I am responsible for Knives' death," Vash said calmly. "I am the one who imprisoned him. That imprisonment is what made him so desperate that he attacked my wife. If you have a grudge about his death, kill me instead of her."

"You will serve me in other ways," Kuntha said. "She will serve me by dying. Now get out of the way!"

Vash didn't move.

Kuntha grabbed the front of Vash's vest with her left hand, and Naomi could almost see the plant energy rippling along the left side of her body. The woman lifted her father and hurled him aside, strengthened by plant energy since she probably lacked adequate physical strength to perform that feat without such aid.

Kuntha did not glance over her shoulder, where she had thrown Vash. Lina had ducked, and Mark and Josiah had caught him. Nobody appeared to be injured, as the boys set their great-great-great-great grandfather back onto his feet.

"Today you die," Kuntha said to Shyla, "and tomorrow you shall be forgotten."

Shyla merely stood there looking at her, with a calm expression on her face. Everyone heard Vash's heartbroken "No!" that echoed through the cathedral as Kuntha's arm began to vibrate with plant energy.

What happened next happened so swiftly that Naomi, and everyone else, always had difficulty trying to recall the details clearly.

The best that everyone could figure out, looking back, was that Kuntha's energy build-up in her arm cannon had damaged part of her own nervous system. She lacked the ability to control the power surge she had built up.

Kuntha's right arm exploded messily, and she collapsed. Those nearest to her when the explosion happened were slightly singed, but none were badly injured.

Martha was first to the fallen attacker. (Her nervous system is barely functional,) Naomi's apprentice reported to her in thought. (There's barely enough brain activity to maintain her involuntary bodily functions. Without serious regeneration, she will never think clearly, move of her own free will, or even speak again. She's also aged dramatically. Even if we manage to restore her physically, she may only live five or ten years at best.)

Naomi worked her way forward, knelt by Kuntha's prostrate body, and verified Martha's diagnosis. She consulted with all of the other plant healers present in thought. (I think this one has judged herself,) she thought to them all, individually. (May I suggest that we stabilize her, but otherwise leave her to human healing techniques?)

One by one, each of the plant healers solemnly agreed with Naomi.

Thus Kuntha destroyed herself, from a mismanagement of her own power... much like her mother's mentor had done.

It was a sad conclusion to a tragic season in their lives. At least, at long last, it was a final conclusion. There was no further threat to them from the Crooked Leaf cult. It was dead.

...

The clergyman completed the ceremony without further mishap, and pronounced Nicholas and Chronica as being husband and wife. They made their triumphal exit and led everyone to the reception.

During that reception, Vash came to Naomi. (Darling, I have a secret for you to keep,) he thought to her. (I know you can keep secrets, since you were so effective over the last forty years in concealing Shyla's condition.)

Naomi felt heat in her cheeks. (I knew no way to wake her safely,) she thought. (I'm so sorry, Papa...)

(I know you meant well,) he thought, and shared both affection and an inner smile. (Yet your capacity to conceal suggests to me that you are the best person to whom I may entrust this secret.)

(What is it that you wish me to know?) she wondered.

(Shyla cannot learn to live like an ordinary human in the Seeds ship's village,) he thought sadly. (I need to take her somewhere else, to a place where she can learn a new lifestyle without any pressure. So I'm going to take her away, to a place where nobody will know that she's not an ordinary human. If she's not expected to be anything else, it will be easier for her to adjust.)

(I understand,) Naomi thought. (Have you chosen such a place?)

(I know a likely place,) he thought, (though I can't be certain until we get there. Watch for a letter from "Tumbleweed Jones." That will be me.)

(I'll do that,) she promised.

(It may be a while in coming, if the first town doesn't suit,) he warned.

(I understand,) she thought. (Perhaps a note could be sent, if it doesn't suit, so we at least know you're still looking?)

(Perhaps,) his thought felt as if he was pondering that idea. Then he continued, (Please don't tell anyone for forty hours. Not even Frank, until that time has passed. Then you can tell Frank.)

He paused, as if permitting that last part to sink in, before communicating further. (Thereafter, tell _only_ family, and _only_ those who inquire,) he thought to her. (We must keep this secret very safe. You know how some people will pursue any rumor of a miracle-worker, and how many people out there view plant healers in that category. So your mother's continued existence, anywhere, must be completely concealed. Else, they will pursue Shyla, hoping that she will spend the last of her strength to heal them.)

(That's why she dyed her remaining little bit of blonde hair black, isn't it? To blend in better with ordinary humans?) Naomi thought.

(Yes,) he said, (though she doesn't know the plan yet, I'm sure she'll agree. You and the others are welcome to visit us, a few at a time, after we settle in. Just please wear wigs or else dye your hair temporarily, so you're not all blonde when you come, and use a surname common among ordinary humans while you visit. We really need to look like regular people, and not stand out as being different.)

(I'll tell the family, as they ask,) Naomi promised. (And I'll wait until at least forty hours have passed, before I tell anyone. We will all be eagerly awaiting that letter from you, signed as "Tumbleweed Jones.")

(Thank you,) he said. (Outside the family, all they will know is that we drove into the desert, and that I was driving. Let them draw their own conclusions from that information.)

Naomi nodded, trying not to cry. She completely understood why her father would choose to do this. However, she'd lived a few houses away from him for so long that it hurt to think that he and her mother would be moving far away. She found an excuse to hug her mother tightly, before they left town.

An hour later, Vash walked off the pages of human history... again. The only difference, this time, is that he was not alone.

...

The car was discovered months later, halfway between December and Seeds village, on a straight line between them. It was out in the desert, well away from any town or city, and it was empty of gas.

Search parties scoured the sands and questioned the nearest towns. None found any trace of either Vash or Shyla. Eventually, after several months, the search was abandoned. Either scavengers had destroyed the remains, or else Vash and Shyla had chosen to disappear. In either case, nothing could be done.

...

Naomi found herself passing along her father's cryptic message to every relative, including Chronica. As the months passed, they all watched and waited.

An idea came to Naomi, of a possible place that her parents might choose to check first. She mentally tracked their journey, impatiently counting the days until she could reasonably hope to see that first letter from "Tumbleweed Jones."

The days kept passing, without a letter. She and Frank prayed for them, as did every other family member. They all tried very hard not to fret.

A year and a half later, their patience was finally rewarded.


	7. Epilogue

_Vash the Stampede belongs to the amazingly creative Yasuhiro Nightow, not me._

_Approximately 3042 years after the manga ends..._

...

**Epilogue**

The sand steamer pulled up to its dock at the small northern town that had been renamed "Orchard Hill" because of all the apple trees that grew there.

Town legends claimed that one quiet man, who'd lived there thousands of years ago, had planted most of those apple trees (some had been planted later, by the townspeople, at special events). His name had been forgotten, as had the date when the town was renamed, but his legend lived on. There was a festival in that town, every year, on the traditional date when he was said to have gone away. It was a combination "thank-you," "farewell," and "hope you come back someday" party.

The tradition he began, that still continued, was to teach the children how to tend the trees, with assistance from adults. Nobody deserved to eat the apples, the saying went, unless they helped to tend the trees. Those trees were _very_ well-tended, every Saturday.

An average-looking brown-haired man walked down the ramp from the sand steamer, amid numerous other passengers. "Joe!" a voice called from the waiting crowd.

"Pa!" the man said. He hurried down the ramp, and warmly embraced his father. "Good to see you, as always."

"Good to see you, too, son," Pete, the older man, said.

They bore a strong family resemblance to each other, though the older man had strands of silver plentifully distributed throughout his brown hair.

"So, what's new since my last visit?" Joe asked.

"Otto and Sarah have retired," Pete said. "The main street's café is under new ownership."

"Really?" Joe said. "I thought they'd never retire. They seemed to love that place too much."

"I guess the young couple who bought it from them _really_ wanted to try running a café," Pete said. "I heard that they made the Jones couple demonstrate their cooking skills, and were favorably impressed, so they agreed to the sale."

"Newcomers, to an itty bitty out-of-the-way town like this," Joe said, shaking his head half-disbelievingly. "That is unusual. Have you sampled their cooking?"

"Every day," Pete said happily. "They're continuing the tradition that the café provides lunch to the Sheriff's office. And they are _very_ good cooks."

"Wow, that's a surprise," Joe said. "Which reminds me, isn't it about lunch time?"

"Yes it is," Pete said, smiling and patting his ample belly. "Let's get to the office and have our lunch. The others have the day off."

"What kind of people are these new café owners, besides good cooks?" Joe asked.

"Very quiet," Pete replied. "Oh, the Jones couple also took on the night janitorial duties at the power plant, so George and Patricia could retire and go live with their family in May."

"I seem to recall that the Browns had wanted to do that for some time," Joe said, nodding. "Strange, though, how nobody else in town wanted that job. I'm glad for them, that they finally got the chance to retire like they'd wanted to do for so long."

"Yes, they had wanted it for awhile," his father agreed. "Anyhow, these two newcomers, who always introduce themselves as 'Tumbleweed' and 'Mayfly,' mostly keep to themselves and stay in their café."

"There are only a few times when anyone sees them outside," he continued. "One of them brings lunch to the Sheriff's office each week-day. They both come out to play with the children each weekday afternoon. They help with the apple trees on Saturdays, along with nearly all of the other townsfolk."

"There's always an evening, once or sometimes twice a week, when he comes to the saloon and sips on a single shot of whiskey all evening long," he added. "And they attend church every Sunday morning, followed by a visit to the town's oldest graveyard. I think they look after the apple tree there, too. Seems to me like it's been thriving better, since they arrived, than it had before."

Pete and Joe arrived at the sheriff's office, and took seats on the bench affixed to the wide front porch.

"Are these newcomers unfriendly?" Joe asked, curious.

"Not at all," his father replied. "I think they might be newlyweds, though, from the way that they get caught up in staring into each others' eyes so easily. They might just be getting used to being married, and enjoy time to themselves. They're very affectionate with each other, and plenty friendly when serving folk in the café."

Joe chuckled. "Newlyweds, eh? Well, at least that makes sense," he said with a knowing smile. "Do they have any other interesting habits?"

"Your uncle Michael says they always leave a fat envelope full of double-dollars, marked 'orphans,' each week at church," Pete said. "After church each Sunday, and after they visit the old graveyard, they wander off into the desert for the rest of the day. They always return in time to clean the plant, though."

"Some folk get too superstitious about that plant," Joe said, shaking his head. "I hope those two aren't that way."

"Yeah," his father agreed. "Would you believe that on the first night they cleaned there, some people swore up and down that the whole place lit up and practically glowed?"

Joe laughed. "People will imagine the strangest things, sometimes," he said.

"That they will," Pete said, nodding. "There was a thunder storm that night. It was probably just an odd reflection from the lightning."

"Is that him?" Joe asked, indicating a tall, lean man walking toward the sheriff's office.

"Yes, that's Tumbleweed," his father said.

"Hello," Joe said, when he arrived. "I'm Joe Sanderson, Pete's son. Pleased to meet you." He extended a hand, offering a handshake.

The tall, black-haired fellow put down the lunch tray he carried onto the bench between them. He wiped his hands off on his apron, and then he reached out and shook hands.

Joe's practiced eye ran over this newcomer, looking for things that made him different from others. There was a wide scar on the back of his right hand, and it looked like his right thumb might have been severed and later sewn back into place at some time in the past. There was a small hole in his left earlobe, as though it had been pierced though he wore no earring. He had a freckle on his cheek, near the outer corner of his left eye.

His aquamarine eyes sparkled with a gentle, friendly humor. "Tumbleweed Jones," he said, smiling. "Pleased to meet you, too."

"That smells wonderful," Pete said enthusiastically.

"Oh, thanks," Tumbleweed said, scratching at the back of his neck, "It's just seasoned Thomas strips with lettuce and dill pickle slices in a sandwich, and apple turnovers, and coffee."

"Aww, does that mean no doughnuts today?" Pete sounded disappointed.

"The breakfast crowd ate them all up this morning," Tumbleweed said, shrugging. "She can make more tomorrow, though, and we can hide a few to bring here for lunch. That is, if I don't eat them myself." He chuckled.

"Oh, please do," Pete said, then swallowed. "Save a few, that is!"

"If I might ask a personal question," Joe said, after eating a bite of sandwich and looking like he enjoyed it, "Why do you call yourself 'Tumbleweed'?"

"I used to be a drifter, until Mayfly taught me how wonderful it can be to live at home," he said, still smiling. "In case you're curious, a 'mayfly' is a tiny, fragile-looking insect I read about that existed back on old Earth. In adult form, they only live for a day, at most. Some varieties only live a few minutes."

His face and voice took on very gentle expressions. "I call her 'Mayfly'," he continued softly, "because, in some ways, she looks as delicate as a mayfly. Also, I never want to take her for granted. I try to treat her as well, every day, as I would if it was the only day we could ever share together. Tomorrow doesn't come with any guarantees."

"That's a beautiful thought," Joe said. "I might start calling my wife 'Mayfly,' too."

Tumbleweed grinned, his face and voice returning to normal. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Nah, we're good," Pete said. "Thanks for lunch."

"Always happy to serve the law," Tumbleweed said, and performed an awkwardly dramatic bow. "Please bring the dishes back, when you're done, as usual."

"Will do," Pete said. He took another bite of sandwich, and swatted his son's hand away from the turnovers.

Tumbleweed nodded politely, and turned his long, lanky body back toward the café. His long, black hair was neatly tied behind his neck and made a short tail that rested between his shoulder blades. He paused very briefly by the Thomas stable-coop, glancing toward it, and then he continued the rest of the short distance back to the café without further interruption.

"Turnovers after sandwiches," Pete said warningly to Joe. "If you watch the side yard of the café, you'll see that the children are already beginning to gather. They'll be out shortly, to play with them." 

"Odd guy, all right," Joe said, around a mouthful of sandwich. "Good cooks, though, as you said."

"Yes, they are," Pete agreed. "I think they'll do, even if they don't change their odd, reclusive habits. They make no trouble, and they do contribute where it's most needed. They may turn out to be good for this town."

"Why did you ask about doughnuts?" Joe asked.

"Oh, that girl has a _way_ with doughnuts," Pete said dreamily. "We'll have to go there for breakfast tomorrow, so you can see what I mean. They're best fresh-fried, instead of hours-old, but they're good either way."

"That sounds like a plan," Joe said. He was curious. If they were half as good as his father claimed, those doughnuts should be worth tasting.

"Hmm, look at that," Pete said, as he swallowed the last bite of his sandwich.

Joe looked to see a quintet of black-haired, fair-skinned people approaching the café. They were two adults, a man and a woman, with three children that looked to be in their early teens: a girl and two boys.

"They have relatives that visit, from one side of the family or the other, just about every month," Pete said. "Those look like more of them. They always help out around the café while they're here, and one can see the family resemblance. The relatives are always as friendly in the café, and quiet outside it, as Mayfly and Tumbleweed themselves are."

"I wonder why they came to an out-of-the-way small town like this?" Joe mused. "Not that it isn't a great town, mind you. Seriously, though, it's just not the kind of place that most people would come to begin their married life."

"They said she'd had family here, long ago," Pete said. "It sounds almost like they originally came to visit, and then decided they liked the place so they stayed."

"Hmm," Joe said around a mouthful of turnover. He swallowed. "It seems the café is in the hands of competent cooks, at least. I'll miss Otto and Sarah, though."

"Yeah, me too," Pete said. "However, these kids do seem to grow on a body. Even though I don't really know them, I can't help liking them."

Joe laughed. "That says a lot, coming from you, you old curmudgeon."

Pete laughed in return. "Yeah, strangers don't often sit well with me," he admitted. "These two, odd and reclusive as they are, they're always very polite. They remember me, and they'll bring me my favorite tea done up _exactly_ how I like it, any time I go into the café. Others have said the same, that they always remember what you like and offer it even before they're asked. A body can get used to being spoiled like that."

"Yeah, that kind of spoiling can be fun," Joe said thoughtfully.

Mayfly and Tumbleweed, along with the two adult and three young-teen looking relatives, came out and started playing with the children. Joe watched them thoughtfully.

"Does anyone know if they plan to have a large family of their own?" Joe asked, after watching them for a few minutes. "They do seem to get on with the children pretty well."

"One of the town busybodies asked her," Pete said. "She looked like she might cry, and said she couldn't have children except by adoption. He was across the room at the time, but he saw his wife's face and came to her. He changed the subject, and nobody's brought it up around her since."

"How long have they been here?" Joe asked.

"About eight months," Mat replied.

"Ah," Joe said. "Give them some more time to settle in, and maybe they'll do some of that adopting."

"Maybe so," Pete said.

The father and son pair sat back, contentedly sipping their coffee and munching turnovers. They watched the newcomers play with the town's children as the afternoon wore on.

"You said nobody brought up the subject of children around her after she'd said she couldn't have any," Joe remembered. "Had somebody brought it up with him?"

"Yeah, that was another odd thing," Pete said. "One of those sisters, you know the ones - they get _really_ friendly with outsiders, or with the town boys who get restless? She talked to him one night when he was visiting the saloon, sipping at his whiskey. Only time anybody ever saw him the least bit angry. She'd suggested that he might want to try a roll in the hay with her, instead of with his barren wife."

"Well," Joe prodded, "What happened?"

"Oh, he up and snapped at her," Pete said. "He said his wife was fine, till one day when they were attacked and she saved his life. She was injured, and now she can't have children. He said he'd die before leaving or betraying her. Then he up and walked out of the saloon, leaving the rest of his whiskey un-sipped. Barkeep told both of those sisters to stay away from him after that, else he'd not let them into his saloon. I guess they minded their own business since then, at least where he's concerned, since nobody's mentioned another scuffle."

"Well, if that's true," Joe said, "it might explain part of the reason he's so devoted to her. You can see it in his face, and hear it in the way he pronounces his nickname for her."

"That you can," Pete agreed, nodding.

When it was time for the new café owners to begin dinner, they said farewell to the children and went inside. The children hovered briefly, waiting for their usual snack, and then dispersed after receiving it.

"Odd pair," Pete repeated, "but they seem to be good people, for all their odd ways."

"Sounds like they might turn out to be good for this little hole-in-the-wall town," Joe said, partly teasing.

"You know," Pete said thoughtfully. "I think they just might."


End file.
